33. Paris

Iwas being stubborn.

No, it wasn't an intuitive thing, shedding one form for another, but I didn't have a sense that I was broken. Somewhere beneath all the feathers was the Paris I'd always been. While it might not be as easy as breathing, I didn't doubt that if I could find an owl inside myself, I could find, well, myself.

The thing was, being an owl didn't require me to talk, and right then, I didn't want to. Orestes was there, sitting at the table like he was an old friend—a brother, Brett said—and I'd come way too close to the wrong side of his fist.

And he—he was easier to think about than Brett. They, both of them, smelled like alcohol and sweat, and if I allowed myself a moment's consideration, I might've realized that there was no sense in being frustrated with him for not acting rationally while he was so far from sober. Still, I couldn't help feeling hurt at being left in the dark.

And then, they all left in a more literal sense. They went to rest, and I wanted to beat my wings and squawk in indignation and demand that someone—anyone attend to me right that second.

But I'd have hated that too. I didn't want pity or coddling. I didn't want an apology and to have to tell them each that it was fine, not to worry about my feelings or my future or anything else.

Because that's what I would've done. I would've told them I was fine, that I didn't mind being kept in the dark—again—and that it was simply reasonable that everyone in Urial and Nemeda both approached me, not like I was a person, but like they thought I was a useless piece in a game, something easily sacrificed and forgotten once it was out of the way.

So I sat there, trembling with fury, until the door opened and Esmerelda Laurence let herself inside.

"Thought you might still be like that," she said, voice a quiet warble as she shut the door and shuffled past the dining room toward the kitchen in the back.

Even that annoyed me, the presumption of it all. But after a few minutes, she came back carrying a tray, the cups and saucers trembling atop it with her unsteady hands.

I hooted, and she shook her head.

"I'm perfectly capable of pouring my own tea," she huffed.

Even still, she'd brought two cups and filled them both. Before she sat, she carefully unfolded the blanket from the pile of gifts that'd the Hawk Clan had brought for me, and draped it over the chair beside her.

"My first time," she said as she sank into her seat and pulled her teacup closer, "I wasn't sure I'd ever want to change back. Flying is something else, isn't it? But I get the sense that's not why you're still winged."

I turned my head, shoving my beak into my feathers like I had an itch.

She sipped her tea from her chair, watching me over her cup. "You're welcome to join me, or to stay just as you are. Whatever you like."

I blinked at her, still feeling rather stuck.

"Am I right, in assuming it's Chief Brett?"

Hearing his name, the gentle way she said it, softened all my frustration. I didn't want to be mad at him. I wanted to be valued, trusted, accepted. Looking back, I wasn't sure I'd ever felt that way, and what hurt the most about all this was learning that the sliver of light I'd thought so close was really leagues away after all.

I found myself melting into the chair before me, all exposed skin and quivering, uneasy limbs, and she shifted over to cover me with the blanket.

Groaning, I dropped my head onto the table with a thunk, right beside the teacup she'd brought for me.

Esmerelda reached out, smoothing her hand from the crown of my skull, down the back of my neck. She kept on, stroking slowly, running her knobby fingers through my hair, while my nose began to ache and I squeezed my eyes shut tight and my lips trembled.

In time, my breath hitched and I wedged my arms beneath my head so I could bury my face in the crook of my elbow.

"We slept together," I whispered without lifting my head. "How did you know?"

"I'm afraid it's hard to keep secrets like that in Nemeda, at least when there's an outlander's cresting involved."

I lifted my head enough to prop my chin on my forearm. "A... cresting?"

Her smile was so gentle and patient that it made my eyes sting. "When a Nemedan comes of age and find their other form, like you found yours."

"Oh." Perfect. Everyone in Brett's village would know we'd fucked and think I was trying to seduce him for Urial's benefit.

"Do you have feelings for him?" she asked, almost like she knew what I was thinking.

All I could do was shrug. "I was... with someone else. In Urial. I haven't heard from them, but... I don't like thinking of myself as someone so fickle, and I—I'm not sure I've ever considered anyone seriously."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just... I only like men. I mean, I'm only attracted to men. I like plenty of women, just not in my bed. And there's not really a path forward for most—for most people of my inclinations in Urial. Most of the time, such romances are seen as youthful indiscretions—never something serious or lasting. Occasionally, you'll find a couple brave enough, committed enough to claim each other publicly, but at court? It's rare. I only knew one couple publicly bound to each other, and if they were invited to events, they were treated as an oddity—more spectacle themselves than guests. I've never considered being at the, uh, at the center of someone's heart."

Esmerelda's expression softened, deepening the lines around her frown, her chin wrinkling.

"It's terrible, feeling like the people in your life don't take you seriously, as if you're not a person who knows their own mind and desires."

I hummed in agreement, but watched her. There was more to that story, and I wanted to hear it, but I didn't want to push her.

She smiled, and I realized she wouldn't have minded me asking, but she took pity on me anyway. "When I came here from the south, I was escaping an arranged marriage. My only thought was that no Nemedan would want to marry me, so I'd escape the whole issue. It"—Esmerelda licked her lips—"it asks a lot of the Nemedans, to risk loving a foreigner."

"How so?"

"Do you know what Avianitis really is?"

I shook my head.

"It's an essence, a magical reaction, usually sparked by the same feeling you get when you first realize you're falling for someone—a mass of energy that makes your skin warm and your heart race? But for a Nemedan, it releases a rush of magic—the same rush that causes Avianitis."

"So they're all sick?"

"No. Or, well... perhaps. For a child, surrounded by loving family and a community they were born into, it's a slow, natural process. But love, romance, sex? It... heightens the rush."

Gods, my cheeks were on fire, and I hated that I'd tucked the owl away. She wouldn't see me blush behind a face of feathers.

"Between Nemedans, it's nothing," she continued. "They already are what they would've become. But for outsiders... we risk more, and so do they. Imagine, developing feelings for a person only to be the cause of their death. It's a bitter, horrible business, and I've never known a Nemedan to seek it out. My husband and I certainly didn't."

My teeth dug into the insides of my cheeks and I shrank down. "But you survived."

Esmerelda smiled and took another sip of tea. "I did. I was aware of the risks, and convinced that anything was worth it to keep Marius. He... took convincing."

I swallowed hard. "So did Brett... know this would happen?"

Still, Esmeralda was smiling, and the kindness in her eyes put me at ease. "I doubt it. People overestimate the control they have over their own emotions, and those sorts of feelings can be particularly tricky. Are you angry with him, for the shift?"

For a moment, I chewed the inside of my cheek. "I don't think so. If he had told me what to expect, if he'd even known, in the moment, I—" I flushed, ducking my head and staring down at my hands. "I wouldn't have cared."

Truth told, I hadn't realized he might have feelings for me at all. It seemed impossible, a niggling voice in my head—one with a distinctly Urialian accent—said that it couldn't happen. He'd stayed at my bedside, sure, but that could be easily discounted as the kind of care that he'd shown to all his people. Since then he'd left me behind. He'd beaten around the bush.

I couldn't help feeling that he regretted what had happened between us, or maybe what I'd become, and the tie created between us. Perhaps I ought to let him explain himself before I jumped to conclusions.

Maybe this time, he'd do a better job of it.

"I don't know how to feel about him," I admitted. "I haven't let myself think about it. I like him. I mean—I like his company, and he's... I, um, like looking at him. And I want him to like me, but I'm—I'm not sure I trust myself anymore. I thought I loved Prince Tybalt, and only with distance am I realizing how pale and weak our connection really was. My brother said I fell too fast, but perhaps I'm just desperate and ready to fall for anyone who shows me a scrap of attention. So I don't know. I–I've always intended to return home. To Urial. To my family. But..."

Sensing my hesitation, Esmerelda reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "You don't have to have your next steps all figured out right now. After some rest, you and Brett will talk, I'm sure."

I huffed. "He's—They're all afraid I'll tell their secrets."

It stung. Even if Rosaline said they trusted me, it seemed only in the abstract. I'd been there months, and they'd kept their secrets. Perhaps I'd been a fool not to see the truth of things, but they hadn't risked telling me and I—I had no right to expect them to, but it hardly established the foundation of real trust.

"They think I'd risk a war," I whispered, "just for—what, political clout? Who would even believe?—"

"You have the means to prove it to your king now, Paris, if you wanted to."

I laughed, tears prickling my eyes. "I just wanted some oranges!" The absurdity of it, of coming here hoping to prove myself competent and valuable and worthy, only to make such a horrible mess of things.

"I'm sorry." I scrubbed my hands down my face. "You're right. I'm exhausted. I should rest."

"Things will look clearer once you do," Esmerelda promised, but my heart wasn't so sure.

When I trudged up the stairs wrapped in nothing but a blanket, I saw that Brett's door was cracked and hurried quickly past. I'd imposed enough on his space, but more than that, I was in no state to talk to him. I couldn't even talk to Esmerelda without hysterics, and she made me feel considerably less complicated.

I walked into my room for the first time in the better part of a week, and my gaze locked on the drawer where I'd stashed Clio's journal. Before Orestes had arrived, I'd just thought of reading it as a way to get insight into what'd happened, a clue that I had every right to peruse.

Now, it felt wrong that I'd peered into her innermost thoughts and feelings, especially as it was too late for her to consent. Frankly, I didn't think she would have.

Still, it wasn't too late to do the best thing I could, under the circumstances. If Orestes cared enough about his sister to come here and fight for her, he deserved this piece of her back.

Once I dressed, I retrieved the journal from the bedside table. I'd wrapped it up in one of Clio's silk scarves when I'd packed up the rest of her things, and I left it tightly bound as I pulled it out. Whatever Orestes wanted to do with it, that was his business, but I shouldn't have it.

As an afterthought, I snatched the knife from the drawer as well—the only one I had, given to me by that stranger who'd approached me in the Nemedan camp, Orestes's own father. I tucked that carefully between the folds of silk.

There weren't so many rooms in Brett's home that it was hard to find where Orestes had been put up to rest, and I knocked on the door.

"Just a minute," a gruff voice sounded from the other side.

I heard him lumbering around, his footsteps heavy in his exhaustion and possible hangover. When he pulled open the door, he swayed a little. When he saw me—tall enough that he had to tuck his chin to look at me—his eyes narrowed.

"Owl."

"Paris," I corrected. "My name is Paris."

He hummed. "What can I do for you, Paris?"

With a nervous swallow, I held the book out, clasped between my flat hands—one on top and one beneath. "I owe you an apology."

He took the package, scowling down at the silk and the hilt of the knife peeking out from within. "I'd think I owe you one first, but tell me what you mean."

"That's your"—I swallowed again, my mouth dry and tongue clumsy—"your sister's diary. I found it when I got here. Kept it secret. And I was afraid, so I read it without thinking. In retrospect, I'm ashamed of my entitlement. I ought not to have done that?—"

"Did it make you less afraid?" Orestes asked.

I shrugged. "Yes and no. It clarified things about Brett, at least. Though I'm sorry to say that..." In the end, I couldn't say it at all—that Clio had meant Brett harm.

Still, Orestes's mouth twisted and I thought he understood anyway.

"And the knife, was that hers as well?" A complicated feeling crossed his face, his brows puckered, his cheeks scrunching toward his eyes.

"No, that's, um—I suppose it's mine. A man approached me when I first arrived in Nemeda and offered the treaty I'm after if I—if I used that knife to kill the chief here. Kill Brett, I mean. He said Brett had murdered his daughter, and, well—" I shook my head. This wasn't the kind of politicking I was any good at. "I'm no killer, and even if I were, it seemed an unreasonable thing to do for a few crates of oranges that my king doesn't even care about. But I don't want it, and I thought you might know what to do with it? Or would take it, anyway."

I had no use for a knife. I was no warrior.

I simply didn't know what fit me now, but certainly neither the diary nor the knife.

Orestes hummed again, turning the wrapped book over in his hands. "Well, thank you."

I bobbed, an abortive gesture between a nod and a bow, but with none of the grace of either. "You're very welcome. Um, rest well."

Before he could ask anything else, I skittered back to my room and shut the door with a click.